


Wedding

by EliraWinter



Series: a dysfunctional marriage, but no less love [2]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post Beach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-27
Updated: 2012-05-27
Packaged: 2017-11-06 02:48:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/413884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EliraWinter/pseuds/EliraWinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik is gone, but Charles marries him anyway, for better and for worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wedding

**Author's Note:**

> (Sequel to [Married](http://archiveofourown.org/works/404609))

The mansion feels empty, so empty without Erik and Raven and happiness.

Sean and Hank and Alex are quiet, and maybe Charles shouldn’t have sent Moira away, maybe they need a mother figure, but Erik hadn’t liked her. And she’d tried to kiss Charles, and that wouldn’t do at all, because even if Erik wasn’t next to him, Charles still belonged…  
He didn’t want to have to avoid her advances while longing for the same contact from someone he’d never have again.

\--

It’s hard, not feeling his legs, moving to stand up from his wheelchair and then realising –  
There was one time when he’d burrowed his way into a book and forgotten, then Alex had found him on the floor in tears and had to go and get Hank to help him up. It’s good that there is still someone strong in the house to lift him.  
Charles battles his humiliation every night when Hank carries him up the stairs, cocooning him in the blue softness of his fur, until he reaches the bedroom. The boy always hovers after that, thoughts concerned and caring, asking if he needs any help with anything, he’s here for Charles, always. Charles smiles and declines, every time, before telling Hank to get some rest and knowing that he’ll just go down to his lab again.

\--

A simple elevator shows up overnight.  
“It’s only temporary,” says Hank, “Just until I can get something better up and running.” Charles can hear Hank’s thoughts without even trying, and he’s thinking that this’d all be a lot easier if they had a metal-manipulator about.

\--

The boys are faring better than him, at least.

Hank's grown into his new body - he's more confident, protective and aggressive now, won't put up with teasing or taunting, fighting back and asserting himself instead.  
(Charles wants to study his mind, wonders if he has heightened senses, wonders if he can smell the pain, the regret and loss that clings to Charles skin.)

He's earned Alex's respect now, Sean's awe, and Charles thinks it admirable that three such different boys have banded together, become stronger in the wake of the upheaval. More often than not, Charles finds them thrown together in a pile on the fold-out bed in front of the television at night; Hank snoring softly, furred arm around Alex who's nestled into his side with Sean sprawled haphazardly next to them.

Charles covers them with blankets and takes his makeshift elevator up to his own room, to languish in his own bed and dream of someone else hugging him close.

\--

Nights are filled with half-memory-half-dream visions, trembling with pleasure and happiness. There’s Raven, who flits in and out of his mind like her namesake, laughing and smiling, blue and blonde and perfect. There’s Darwin sometimes, tall and talented, hands resting possessively over Alex’s chest. Then Hank, shy and jittery and lanky and tall to snarling and furry and still a genius.

But most of all, there’s Erik, Erik Lehnsherr who is beautiful and sharp-edged, breaking and loving, angry and serene all at once.

Charles dreams that Erik’s embracing him. He dreams of Erik on the satellite, Erik flying, Erik grinning that wide grin with all his teeth showing and eyes crinkling at the corners, Erik shedding a single tear of joy, Erik pacing as his muscles twitch from being held back, Erik twirling a Nazi coin around his slender fingers, Erik drinking black coffee at the kitchen table.

Charles dreams that Erik’s fucking him. He dreams that Erik’s caging him in his powerful arms, sliding into him with sure strokes, gasping with his mouth next to Charles’ ear, and Charles recalls the guttural sound of Erik’s moans. Erik’s mouthing at his collarbone, sucking at his neck. Erik’s gripping his hips, hard enough to leave fingerprints burned into Charles’ pale skin; tangling his legs between Charles’ and plastering himself up against Charles’ back, holding him so close that Charles can feel his racing heartbeat, can imagine that their blood is blending together, their fears and their victories becoming one.

Charles dreams that Erik’s loving him. He dreams of Erik holding his hand beneath the boughs of the oak tree on the Westchester grounds, kissing him chastely on the lips, the forehead, sliding a warm ring onto his finger. He dreams that the ring tightens to fit him perfectly, a miniature hug, part of Erik always with him. He dreams of the ring circling on his finger, sliding softly as a snake, and he dreams of Erik’s eyes.

Charles dreams that they want the same thing.

\--

It’s a week or so before Charles wheels himself to Erik’s room, the room he never really used because he was usually in Charles’ bed. Everything’s a little bit dusty, and there’s nothing on the floor – Erik’s small number of possessions are on the cabinet, all his clothes folded neatly in the drawers, and the Nazi coin is nowhere to be found, of course. Charles runs his fingertips over the bedspread, then opens the cabinet drawers, suddenly desperate for the feel of Erik’s black turtlenecks clutched in his hands. He raises the soft, worn fabric to his face and inhales; the scent of Erik is there, faintly, lingering under the smell of Charles’ detergent and the mustiness of the drawers.

A scarlet square catches Charles’ eye, so out of place amongst the black and beige, and before Charles even thinks he’s picking it up. It’s satiny and he opens it and, oh, it’s a ring, it’s a tasteful circle of unadorned silver and it’s so Erik that tears bead in Charles’ eyes. He remembers, then, how Erik had sometimes wished that they could marry, that they could belong to each other that way, carefully projecting those thoughts while shielding everything else behind his eyes. Erik might have bought this ring in town, bought it with Nazi gold or even stolen it, or – or he could have made it himself – and Charles sees etchings on the inside of the band, Erik’s blocky text spelling out CHARLES XAVIER-LEHNSHERR like a demand or a wish or a statement or all three.  
Charles closes his eyes, thinks of gentle lips and warm hands and slips the ring onto his finger.

He smiles, lets a tear trickle down his cheek, and says,  
“I do.”


End file.
